


Lay Me Down

by grydo2life



Category: Marvel (Movies), The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Angst, Coulson Lives, M/M, Post-Movie, Pre-Relationship, Pre-Slash, Prompt Fill, Sleep Deprivation, avengerkink, cc-bingo, cici wrote serious fic for once in her goddamn life, hinted ptsd, mentions of trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-13
Updated: 2012-07-13
Packaged: 2017-11-09 21:51:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/458840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grydo2life/pseuds/grydo2life
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On some level, Clint thinks he deserves it. He might not be seeing the damage he caused with his own eyes, but he’s feeling it. Atonement is a bitch, and penance hurts like hell, but at least this way he can look at himself in the mirror and not hate what he sees.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lay Me Down

**Author's Note:**

> For [this prompt](http://avengerkink.livejournal.com/5102.html?thread=5698798&) at avengerkink: _...Clint has been overworked with one mission right after the next recently, and he hasn't slept in like, 3 days. When he finally gets back to base, ready to sleep, Fury gives him more things to do(train recruits or something...idk). Clint wants to protest, because he is barely conscious he is so tired, but he begrudgingly does what Fury tells him. Coulson then comes in and demands that he needs Clint more urgently that Fury, to finish all the reports he never filled out or something like that. Clint follows Coulson to his office and expects to be kept awake even longer, and Coulson proceeds to shove a blanket in his hands and orders him to take a nap on his couch. Clint is extremely grateful._  
>  _Can be preslash or slash, but I would love a non-established relationship.  
>  Bonus points for cuddling.  
> Even more bonus points if Phil takes Clint home with him when he gets done at the office._
> 
> Also for my cc-bingo card: #5 Taking Care of a Sick/Injured Partner
> 
> **Warnings:** Deals with a character punishing themself both emotionally and physically (through both sleep deprivation and the ignoring of their physical limits), and other characters ignoring and/or enabling this behavior (mostly out of necessity). Hints of trauma and potential PTSD and it not being dealt with in a particularly healthy way. 
> 
> I don't personally think it's that bad, and the only thing that's actually addressed properly is the sleep deprivation, but if any of these are potential triggers for you, please proceed with caution. If there's anything else you think I should warn for, please let me know.

In many ways, the aftermath of the Tesseract Incident is worse than the battle ever was. During the fight there was purpose, direction, a driving need not to think but to act; to keep moving before something made you dead. Without that, stuck in the calm between storms, all anyone has is time to mourn and grieve and remember and rebuild, and none of it is an easy process. 

Clint isn’t allowed to help with the clean-up. Fury and Hill make that very clear. Part of it, he knows, is PR bullshit, in the same way that his not-quite-orders from Fury to stay the fuck out of sight are. Because it’s bad for agent morale to see the man responsible for the deaths of dozens of their friends and coworkers walking around free and trying to _help_.

Part of it – and Clint’s not sure even they are aware of this – is just a driving need for them to protect their own. And for some reason he can’t fathom, they still think of him as that. As theirs. As SHIELD.

They don’t want him to have to see what comes after the fight; not this fight, anyway. And, on some level, he’s fairly certain that having him help with fixing the damage he was forced into causing feels a little too much like punishment for them to be comfortable.

Clint’s not sure the alternative is all that better.

Three missions in as many months, two of them deep cover that lasted over two weeks, and Clint is ready to drop. There’s technically supposed to be an off period between these things – regulations cite mandatory time off and psych evaluations prior to returning to duty after missions that require false identities – but in the chaos that follows Loki’s wake, there’s just no time. America is tail-spinning, the rest of the world is in a panic, and seeing one living god attempt a coup has all the nutjobs coming out of the woodwork for their taste of the action.

SHIELD doesn’t have enough agents to cover it all, not after Loki. And they sure as hell don’t have enough people with covert ops experience and an aim that never fails. 

On some level, Clint thinks he deserves it. He might not be seeing the damage he caused with his own eyes, but he’s feeling it – in the migraine brewing behind his eyes and the ache deep-seated into his bones. Atonement is a bitch, and penance hurts like hell, but at least this way he can look at himself in the mirror and not hate what he sees.

He’s working on his second – third? – day without sleep when he steps off the Quinjet that just flew him in from Dubai. His chest aches from the fractured ribs, the black-eye throbs in time to the cut on his arm, and he has sand in places that should never be mentioned, but for a split second, he breathes easier.

And then Hill finds him.

“Debrief in 10, Agent,” she says, eyeing him in a way he can’t decipher.

Clint considers, for half a minute, telling her to fuck off. Every muscle in his body hurts, he hasn’t eaten in 12 hours, and he’s so far beyond the point of tired that bits of him are starting to quake. 

But then he _remembers_ , and all of that suddenly seems moot. “Yes ma’am.”

She nods at him, once, and for a brief instant Clint sees her eyes flicker across him almost sadly before she turns on her heel, military precise, and walks away.

Ten minutes later, he’s in a room with Fury and Hill, giving as detailed an account as he can remember. Which, admittedly, isn’t much; he remembers the briefing beforehand, finding his vantage point, taking the shot. The bits in-between are all muddled, though. It’s mostly just one long, fuzzy memory of trying very desperately to stay awake long enough to get his job done and get out.

He’s halfway through guestimating how long it took him to disassemble his nest when Coulson walks in, and even then, it takes him another three sentences to realize no one is paying attention anymore.

“Agent Coulson,” Fury greets, his tone subdued. Clint actually thinks he sounds tired. He can relate.

“Sir,” Coulson returns with a nod. “I’m sorry for the interruption, but I need to borrow Agent Barton for a while.”

Clint lifts his head and blinks at Coulson owlishly. “Phil?” He asks, and then pauses. It takes him a moment to figure out why that’s not _right_. “Sir.” He corrects a second later.

Coulson finds his eyes and waves a folder around with his good hand. The other is trapped in the sling that medical had strong-armed him into wearing. He’s still not healed fully, but SHIELD has some of the best medical technology on the planet, and Thor had been more than willing to lend them some Asgardian help when Fury had finally let it slip that their esteemed handler was not as dead as they thought he was, so he’s at least back on his feet now.

Nobody has really forgiven Fury for lying to them about that, least of all Clint, but Clint also understands, better than most, the necessity of sacrifice. He doesn’t begrudge the Director for it.

He’s just glad it hadn’t been permanent.

Fury frowns, although it’s hard to differentiate that from his normal expression. (Normal these days, anyway; Clint remembers a time when Fury had let a smirk pass here and there, rarer still a faint smile when he was really, really pleased. He sort of misses that, actually.) “We’ve still got things to go over…” He says, drumming his fingers along the table in a tell that he’s considering his options.

Coulson fixes him with a look that Clint is familiar with. It’s his patented ‘fight me on this and I will shoot you and then _smile_ about it’ look. Clint has ever only seen it used on junior agents. Against the Director, it’s kind of hilarious.

“…but I suppose it can wait.” Fury allows after a brief stare down. He waves absently at Clint. “Go.”

Clint hesitates, and then turns to Hill. “Ma’am?” He’s not really asking for permission, but she’s had her fingers curled over a folder since he walked in. He knows what’s in it, and so does everyone else in the room.

He just wants to see what she’ll do.

Hill’s eyes flicker between Clint, Fury, and Coulson for a moment. Finally, she settles back on Clint and gives him a smile that’s almost real. “Good work, Agent Barton,” she says, and as she does so, she subtly slides the folder closer to herself, drops her palm over the SHIELD logo on the front of it so Clint can’t see it anymore. “Get some rest.”

Clint holds her eyes for a moment, then he ducks his head in a nod. A second later he feels Coulson nudging at his shoulder encouragingly, and he uses that as motivation to force himself back onto his feet.

It takes longer than it should for the room to stabilize around him. His vision isn’t swimming, not quite, but there’s an unsteadiness to everything that makes him think he shouldn’t have sat down for the debrief at all. 

“Clint?” Coulson asks. He sounds concerned, but also far away. 

“Yeah.” Clint answers, shaking his head and forcing himself to straighten. 

There’s a long moment where everyone is silent, and then Coulson takes the initiative. He wraps his arm around Clint’s shoulders and presses his hand, still holding the file, against the small of his back. Then he herds Clint towards the door, nodding at Fury and Hill over his shoulder. Clint is content to let himself be led out of the room, and for the first time in days, lets his mind relax, trusting Coulson not to steer him wrong.

They end up in Coulson’s office. The trip there is already foggy in Clint’s mind as Coulson nudges the door shut to give them some privacy. He has to purposefully force himself to refocus.

“You needed me for something?” he asks, watching as Coulson rounds the desk, drops the file onto it, and then yanks open a drawer and pulls something out.

“Yes,” Coulson says. He comes back around to stand in front of Clint, and then he’s pressing something soft into his arms and giving Clint his usual ‘don’t be a moron, Barton’ look. He’s got a lot of looks, Coulson does. Clint has seen most of them at some point or another. “I still have a few hours left before I can leave, but there’s no reason you can’t commandeer my couch in the meantime. You are, after all, the whole reason I got the damn thing in the first place.”

Clint frowns. He hears the words, but parts of them don’t make sense, even when he focuses on them. “Sir?”

“ _Sleep_ , Barton. When was the last time you had any?”

“…what day is it?”

“ _Clint_.” Coulson has a lot of tones, too. Clint knows this is one of his warnings.

He sighs. “Not since before Dubai,” The admission comes out weary. He’s not actually sure how long ago that was, but it had to have been a while, because Coulson looks mildly furious when he hears.

“They never should have let you take that mission.” 

“I asked for it.” He didn’t, and Coulson knows that, but Clint will be damned before he ever sells out his superiors again. 

Coulson seems to realize this, or maybe he just realizes that it’s a lost cause to fight with Clint when he’s like this, because instead of pushing further, he reaches and nudges Clint towards the couch. “Lay down.” He commands. “I’ll wake you when it’s time to leave.”

Clint hesitates for only a moment, just long enough to catch Coulson’s eyes. The other man’s expression is soft; not open, but unguarded in a way that Clint has grown unaccustomed to seeing in the last few months. It’s… nice.

So Clint nods and does as he’s told. He’s gone almost as soon as he’s horizontal, and the last thing he’s aware of is the sound of Coulson’s desk chair being pulled out and then the faint clatter of typing.

\-----x

He wakes up to motion and the soft hum that comes from a very quiet car, and for half an instant is struck by a sense of blind panic that only subsides when a hand falls onto his shoulder and squeezes tight.

“Easy.” Someone to his left says, and Clint knows that voice, and he knows that touch. It’s second-nature, relaxing under them.

“Sorry,” he says when his heartbeat has stopped hammering and his chest isn’t heaving anymore. Coulson makes a noise and retracts his hand, and Clint swivels his head around to look at him. He frowns. “You’re not wearing your sling.”

“I can’t drive with it on.” Coulson tells him, and it’s the hint of irritation in his tone that adds for him, _and I hate the damn thing, anyway_.

“Pretty sure that’s what they make junior agents for.”

Coulson snorts. “The junior agents think I sleep in my office hanging from the rafters.” He points out, and Clint grins, because the rumor mill surrounding Coulson never fails to be amusing, and it’s gotten even better since the man came back from the dead. “I’d hate to ruin their betting pool.”

It takes Clint an embarrassingly long time to decipher the meaning between the lines. “I’m not a stray you need to take home and care for, Phil. I can look after myself.”

The noise Coulson makes is pure skepticism. “Because you’ve proven that so well thus far.”

Clint scowls and looks away. They drive in silence for several moments before he finally speaks again. “Someone has to do it.”

“That someone does not always have to be you, Clint.” The car turns into the parking lot of an unremarkable apartment complex, all brick walls and overgrown grass sticking out between the cracks in the asphalt. Coulson brings the car to a stop and removes the key. “Sooner or later you’re going to have to accept that what happened was not your fault,” he tells Clint, “and working yourself to death isn’t going to help anyone.”

He waits, like he expects Clint to have a response to that. When Clint merely presses his lips into a thin line and avoids his gaze, he lets out a slow sigh and gets out of the car with minor difficulty. It takes Clint a moment to realize he’s supposed to follow, but by the time he does, Coulson has already rounded the car and is tugging the passenger door open. He takes Clint by the arm, and Clint wants to shake him off, but the world sways the moment he’s upright, that same edge of bone-deep exhaustion creeping back into him, and it’s all he can do at that moment not to topple over.

Coulson’s grip on his arm tightens briefly, steadying him. “Alright?” He asks. Clint nods through the dizziness.

“Fine.”

Coulson makes a noise that suggests he doesn’t believe him, but doesn’t press. Instead, he gives Clint’s arm a short tug to get him moving, and then releases it in favor of pressing his hand against the nape of Clint’s neck, his fingers tangling with the short hairs there as he guides the archer towards the building entrance. 

They take the elevator up to the third floor. Coulson’s hand stays where it is the whole way up, and what the doors open, he drops it to Clint’s back and shepherds him towards the end of the hall in the same way he had back at headquarters. Clint is grateful for it; every step brings back a little bit more of the fog from earlier, only worse now that he doesn’t have anything driving him to keep going. By the time they reach the right door, Clint feels like the only things keeping him upright are the sheer force of his will and the encouraging touch Coulson gives him to usher him inside. 

It’s actually nothing like he expects it to be. Admittedly, he’s never really given much thought to, but there’s still a twinge of surprise as he takes in the worn furniture, cluttered coffee table, and unwashed dishes taking up space in the kitchenette sink. 

It’s nothing like Coulson’s work space, which is kept in a constant state of meticulous order. 

“Contrary to popular belief,” Coulson says, as if he can read Clint’s mind, “I do have a life outside of my work with SHIELD.”

“Oh,” Clint says, for lack of anything better.

Coulson leads him passed the living room, completely bypassing the couch that Clint has been eyeing since they came in, instead steering him down the hall and into the bedroom at the end. Clint makes a vague little noise at the sight of the bed, because _bed_ , and really, a mattress has never looked so good.

Coulson chuckles and urges him forward. “Get undressed,” he instructs.

Clint squints at him. “Going a little bit fast there, aren’t we, Phil? You haven’t even asked me to dinner yet.” The impact of it is probably lessened by the fact that he’s already tugging his shirt off obediently. Still, he goes on, “What kind of date do you take me for?”

Coulson snorts. “You don’t want me to answer that.” He says, and then presses his hand to Clint’s shoulder. “In the bed, Barton. Go.”

Clint goes, climbing gracelessly on top of the comforter and all but collapsing against the pillow. There’s a light tugging at his feet and a moment later, Coulson is sliding off his boots and dropping them beside the bed. Then everything is warm and soft, and it takes Clint a moment to realize a blanket has just been draped over him. He sighs softly, content and _safe_ for the first time months, and murmurs, “Thanks, Phil.”

There’s a moment’s pause, and then Clint feels fingers slide into his hair, petting him gently, and everything goes delightfully fuzzy. 

“When you wake up,” Coulson says, his voice a deep, soothing rumble, “you and I are going to have a very long, very over-due talk about you punishing yourself over things that are out of your control.”

Clint hums, not really hearing the words. “Lookin’ forward to it, sir.” He slurs, already halfway gone.

Coulson just smiles and continues to stroke his hair. “Go to sleep, Clint.” He says kindly.

And Clint does.


End file.
